Most Helpful Customer Reviews

Tekin's novel is about his protagonist's travels back and forth between West and East Berlin during the Cold War Era.
He is a student in the West who studies political philosophy including the differences between Communism, Capitalism and Socialism. Today's readers may not realize that
one could be shot, arrested or imprisoned if caught trying to flee to the West. His vivid descriptions filled with sensory detail make you feel that you are standing
beside him.
His conversations with those he meets is a study of the pros and cons of each political doctrine as well as how each person's perceptions is shaped by free market mass
media or the relentless barrage of government propaganda. The author is perceptive enough to engage in grueling self-analysis and clever enough to find humor under the
most trying conditions. His conception of the ideal political doctrine is one called eco-socialism, a network of national policies designed to preserve the earth's
ecological sustainability as well as to promote personal happiness. Threaded throughout this tale, like a necklace of precious jewels, is a kind of mystical lyricism that
turns his prose into poetry. Overall, a page turner. I loved it.

I recommend it! - Akin Tekin's speculative utopian essay/novel. Tekin's cautionary glimpses of a post-apocalyptic future bracket this documentary style (auto
biographical?) memoir of a Turkish student/immigrant - and environmental Sophist - Erol, caught up in the maelstrom of the East-West, socialist/capitalist conflict - and
environmental/social dislocation - in Germany - and the world - in the 1980's.

Knowing where our earth and its inhabitants are headed and what has to be done to save us is a heavy burden to carry. It is my experience that the information in The Duel
At Checkpoint Charlie comes from the author’s fierce and broken heart. Read everything this Eco-prophet offers and then look to your part in it…past, present and future.

By writing down my sorrows in this damned cold cell, I relived my childhood once again. As I warmed my child-hands on the
breast of my mother, the lock of the iron door turned.

The door opened wide

Boots squeaked.

A significant number of policemen stepped inside.

My cold room became significantly colder.

My soul suffered additional
pain!

I was put in handcuffs.

The corridors of the prison were filled with noise.

Reams of paper were inserted into the machines.

lack typewriters clattered.

Questions were posed; statements were recorded.

They took me for a member of a criminal gang that smuggles people across
the border. They spared no manner or method to gain information about this supposed gang, physical or mental. But they always got the same answer from me:

“I didn’t want to do anything other than to take my wife and child to
West Berlin.”

“Why did you shoot at the soldiers at the border with a machine gun?”

“They were shooting at me from every watchtower; in self-defense and to intimidate them, I shot back,” was my answer.

I was locked up in my cold cell once again.

One day the iron door was opened again and armed soldiers brought me to the first row of seats in a courtroom.

The courtroom filled up, the judges in their robes stood before me, my personal information was stated and I was bombarded
with questions. The states attorney read the indictment aloud; in his view, I was a terrible criminal.

My neck was growing stiff from looking up at the judges.

I want to repeat simply and concisely the accusations that were being levied against me in exaggerated pronouncements and
jargon.

Finally the chief justice spoke:

“Mr. Atila, is the charge made by the states attorney accurate?”

My God, this voice, this face – wasn’t this Ursula, who wept in my arms just a year ago? But I couldn’t let it show. I
stared. Chief Justice Ursula repeated her question, with an anxious, almost pleading shaky voice:

“Mr. Atila, answer. Is the states attorney’s indictment accurate?”

As I overcame my shock, I answered:

“Partially.”

The chief justice was visibly relieved; she probably thought I would address her as “Ursula.” The accusations were repeated
in detail.

“Mr. Atila, you are charged with belonging to a criminal gang that smuggles people across the border. Do you affirm this
accusation?”

“No, your honor. I don’t belong to such a gang and I also don’t know anyone who is involved in such activities. I only wanted
to take my child and my wife across the border.”